


Life Is What You Bake It

by neglectedtuesday



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Asexual Stiles Stilinski, Baked Goods Galore, Beta Peter Hale, M/M, Minor Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Omega Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-16 02:12:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11244201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neglectedtuesday/pseuds/neglectedtuesday
Summary: “You’re not broken Mr. Stilinski, nor are you a freak,” Deaton says, reaching into a drawer and searching for something, “You are simply asexual.”“Asexual?” The word tastes heavy in Stiles mouth but it doesn’t feel wrong.“Asexuality is not uncommon in society,” Deaton continues, finding what he was looking for. Unsurprisingly it’s a pamphlet. “There are lots of omegas, betas and alphas are asexual or a form of asexuality. There are many chat forums and websites that cater specifically to asexuality. Obviously you will not be required to go to play-mating classes anymore and if you so wish you can remain off the suppressants.”Stiles clutches the pamphlet in his hands. Asexual. Not broken, just asexual. It’s a word that Stiles can definitely get used to.





	Life Is What You Bake It

**Author's Note:**

> Beta Read by FeelingsDusk - seriously without her help this would never have been finished. This has been a WIP since 2015 and I was going to scrap it until I asked Feelingsdusk to read it and she helped me get past my writers block and finish it. So really, thank her!
> 
> This portrayal of asexuality is based on my own experiences. I am grey-asexual myself and am repulsed by penetrative sex of any kind. 
> 
> I hope that you enjoy it, this narrative has been a long time coming.

Stiles is eleven when he gets his first period. It’s painful, like his insides are ripping themselves apart. The mood swings are the worst; he goes from hungry to feeling sick to feeling miserable to feeling so unexplainably angry he believes that he could take on a bear and win. It’s awful, the sensation of sticky wet blood between his thighs and having to wear sanitary pads in his boxers. He thinks this is the worst part of being an omega. At least it’s during the summer holidays and he doesn’t have to go to school. Stiles isn’t sure how other people cope with this horrendous pain all the time. They’re much stronger than Stiles.

 

His dad does his best to make Stiles feel better. He brings Stiles special medication designed to reduce the pain and a hot water bottle to help lessen the cramps. Stiles knows that his dad wishes his mom was still here to help Stiles through this but he doesn’t complain about it once. He just tries his best to reduce Stiles’ discomfort. He even lets Stiles eat as much chocolate as he wants which is the small shining light of hope in this painful nightmare.

 

Once his period is over ( _FIVE WHOLE DAYS_ ) John takes Stiles to the doctors. Stiles worries at first, thinking that maybe something is wrong with him and that maybe he shouldn’t have lazed around in bed or maybe your period isn’t supposed to last five days. John sooths Stiles worries in the hospital waiting room by explaining that all omegas and people with vagina’s have to go to the doctor after their first period because that signals that they’re going to be having heats soon.

 

Heats. Stiles rolls the word around in his mouth trying to get a feel for it. The word itself doesn’t sound pleasant, it sounds hot and sticky. Stiles has had enough of being sticky from his period, he doesn’t want to be even stickier. And because Stiles has an insatiable curiosity he asks his dad when people without vaginas go to see the doctor if they don’t have periods to tell them that they will soon be having heats. The tips of John’s ears go bright red and he stumbles over his words before saying he’ll tell Stiles later. Stiles doesn’t think this is fair but his name is called for his appointment so he just has to deal with it.

 

Doctor Deaton is very nice and friendly but Stiles is still a little unsure of him. Deaton does a full body examination, a prostate check and vaginal swab. Stiles listens intently when Deaton explains all about heats and how they are specific to omegas. The more he listens the more horrified he is. Heats sound awful. He doesn’t let it show though, just nods along to Deaton’s lecture and accepts the pamphlets that are handed to him.

 

“Of course,” Deaton says, talking to John rather than Stiles, “He’s far too young to be put into play-mating classes. Those will start around age fourteen, fifteen. It’s best to put him on suppressants now so that Stiles will get used to them.”

 

So Stiles goes home with a bunch of pamphlets, special purple pills to suppress his heats and a feeling in his gut, which gnaws at him worse than the period pain. He’s only heard a little about heats and play-mating and he knows that he doesn’t want them at all. He doesn’t know how to tell his dad so he just takes his pills and hides the pamphlets under his bed.

 

//

 

Stiles is fifteen, in his second year of high school, when he’s put into play-mating classes with the rest of his year. They do it a few homeroom classes at a time and it takes place in the gym, hundreds of rubber mats laid out on the floor and the general smell of sweat in the air. He sticks close to Scott, sick to his stomach. Stiles doesn’t really like alphas, Scott being the only exception. They tend to leer at Stiles with lewd grins and rude hand gestures. Stiles ignores them, insults them through clever wordplay or has to talk Scott down from challenging them. Everyone assumes that Scott and Stiles are a mated pair but that’s never been the case. Scott is like Stiles brother and besides Scott has a crush on that pretty beta Allison, who transferred to their school a month ago.

 

“Alright you juveniles,” Finstock barks, “This first session you’ll be allowed to pick your partner, after that you’ll fill out compatibility tests and then you’ll be paired based on those. Now, pair up and find a mat. And keep your goddamned clothes on, you filthy little heathens.”

 

“Do you want me to pair with you?” Scott asks in a hushed tone. Stiles shakes his head.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Stiles says, clapping a hand on Scott’s shoulder, “Anyway this is your chance to talk to Allison.”

 

Scott’s face lights up at the prospect and he bounds off to where Allison is standing, nudging a mat with her toe. Stiles looks around him, watching people nervously pair up. Erica, a shy beta who usually hides behind her luscious blonde hair, has scraped it back into a ponytail and is boldly talking to Boyd, pointing at a mat and waggling her eyebrows suggestively. Lydia Martin, the only other alpha that Stiles has any respect for, just grabs Jackson Whittemore, the biggest beta douchebag to ever exist, and drags him over to a mat. Jackson seems completely in awe of her.

 

Soon almost everyone is paired up and Stiles starts to panic. He’s been dreading play-mating since the first day he ever knew about it, he doesn’t want to end up pinned down by some asshole alpha.

 

“Hey,” A voice says, tapping Stiles on the shoulder. Stiles spins round to see Danny standing there. Danny’s a nice beta and usually does a good job of keeping Jackson in line.

 

“Hi,” Stiles replies, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

 

“Do you want to?” Danny trails off, gesturing to the mat. Stiles doesn’t really want to but he supposes he has no choice. Danny really is a nice guy so Stiles could do a lot worse.

 

“I though you liked Ethan,” Stiles says, flopping down on the mat. Danny’s face darkens.

 

“I thought he liked me too,” Danny replies, sitting down next to Stiles, “But he’s too busy slobbering over that omega from his calculus class. Not that you’re a second choice Stiles, you’re really cute.”

 

Stiles blushes at the compliment and hides his face in his hoodie so that Danny can’t see. He tries to listen to Finstock who is yelling about clothes and boundaries and something called dry humping. Danny looks as uncomfortable as Stiles feels. Once Finstock has stopped yelling creative threats, they’re left to their own devices. Immediately, betas and omegas that are partnered with alphas end up on their backs on the grimy mats. Stiles expression conveys his disgust.

 

“Do you want be on top?” Danny asks. Stiles looks around quickly, noting a few omegas that are sitting on their partners, rubbing against them. Stiles bites his lip before looking back at Danny.

 

“Is that ok?” Stiles enquires, fingers nervously tapping out a beat on his thigh. Danny shrugs.

 

“I’m ok either way.”

 

Danny lies back on the mat and Stiles straddles him. Danny’s hands grip Stiles waist and he starts to rock his hips gently against Stiles. The scent of arousal is cloying, a thick dense fog. Alpha, beta and omega hormones mingle into the air, making it a potent cocktail. Stiles can feel Danny getting hard. He can smell alpha and beta pheromones but instead of driving him into a lusty haze, Stiles just feels sick. He knows he should be wet or hard by now but nothing is happening. Danny looks concerned. A hand reaches up to touch Stiles shoulder.

 

“Are you ok?”

 

Stiles shakes his head. He climbs off Danny, backing away. The smell is overpowering. Stiles can’t be here right now.

 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles, mumbles before he takes off, running for the gym door. He manages to get to the bathroom and into a stall before throwing up into the toilet. He slumps against the wall, using toilet paper to wipe his mouth and flushes his sick away. At least here the only smell is heavily lemon scented bleach. Stiles forces himself not to cry like a child, he’s stronger than that. If he wipes away a few errant tears well then there’s no one here to see. The bathroom door opens and closes. Stiles heart pounds in his chest.

 

“Stiles are you alright?” Danny’s voice calls out.

 

“I think I have a stomach bug,” Stiles replies, dry heaving a few times for added effect, “I’m gonna go to the nurse.”

 

“Ok, I’ll get your stuff.”

 

Danny really is a nice beta. Stiles almost wishes that he wasn’t so mating repulsed. Almost.

 

//

 

Stiles skips school the next day to go visit Doctor Deaton. Technically he’s supposed to be taking a day off school anyway because of his stomach bug so visiting the doctor wouldn’t be seen as suspicious. Deaton’s office looks exactly the same as when Stiles first visited it, pamphlets and all. It smells like the lavender that lives in a pot on the windowsill.

 

“Hello Mr. Stilinski, what can I help you with today?” Deaton asks, face neutral but open. Stiles taps a rhythm with his fingers on his thigh, unsure of how to phrase it. He bites his lip, looking down at his hands, thinking of the words but unable to say them. He doesn’t want to sound broken. Dysfunctional. A freak.

 

“I… I,” Stiles stammers. He swallows audibly, closing his eyes and breathing out slowly.

 

‘Take your time Mr. Stilinski.” Deaton shuffles some papers on his desk, signs a couple and puts them in a folder.

 

“I hate play-mating,” Stiles says quietly. Deaton says nothing, non-verbally prompting Stiles to continue. “I don’t get hard or slick and I hate the smell of alpha pheromones. I threw up during my first session and I don’t want to go back.”

 

“Perhaps it’s the suppressants,” Deaton muses, “There have been cases where the suppressants prevent omegas from becoming aroused.”

 

“So I should just stop taking them?” Stiles asks. That doesn’t sound like a solution at all.

 

“I will write you a note to remove you from play-mating classes until we discover the root of this issue,” Deaton says, grabbing a pen and beginning to write, “Also I would recommend going off the suppressants temporarily to experience a heat. Come back to me after your heat and we’ll go from there.”

 

Stiles takes the note in his clammy hand and tries to look on the bright side. At least he’s not going back to play-mating for a while.

 

Stiles heat is unusual. He doesn’t crave sex. He doesn’t present or finger himself or even masturbate (not that he’s even masturbated before). He just has an overwhelming urge to be cuddled and cared for. He wants someone to play with his hair, to kiss his forehead and provide for him. No sex, no desperation, just care and affection. He swaddles himself in blankets, the weight of them almost like a person hugging him.

 

His heat lasts four days. Four days of craving intimacy that isn’t sexual. The day that it’s over, Stiles panics. Because he’s an omega, he’s not supposed to feel that way. He’s supposed to be horny as fuck, needing an alpha knot, needing to be breed. And ok, those stereotypes are stupid but he was in heat. He’s watched the informative videos, heard the stories, read the online accounts. Heat equals horny omega that either wants to be knotted by an alpha or beta. That’s a proven biological fact. Stiles frets for a few days before scheduling another appointment with Deaton.

 

“How did your heat go Mr. Stilinski?” Deaton asks.

 

“I wasn’t horny,” Stiles blurts, blushing crimson. “I didn’t get aroused, didn’t masturbate. I’ve never masturbated, I’ve never wanted to.”

 

Stiles feels his blush darkening in color because he said masturbate in front of an adult but he carries on regardless.

 

“I didn’t want an knot, I wanted to be cuddled and cared for and just looked after and I don’t care if that makes me broken or a freak because I’m not going back to play-mating and I’m not going to have sex and if I have to stay on suppressants for the rest of my life then that’s what I’ll do.”

 

Deaton holds a hand up to placate Stiles. Stiles stops his rant, wiping away tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie.

 

“You’re not broken Mr. Stilinski, nor are you a freak,” Deaton says, reaching into a drawer and searching for something, “You are simply asexual.”

 

“Asexual?” The word tastes heavy in Stiles mouth but it doesn’t feel wrong.

 

“Asexuality is not uncommon in society,” Deaton continues, finding what he was looking for. Unsurprisingly it’s a pamphlet. “There are lots of omegas, betas and alphas are asexual or a form of asexuality. There are many chat forums and websites that cater specifically to asexuality. Obviously you will not be required to go to play-mating classes anymore and if you so wish you can remain off the suppressants.”

 

Stiles clutches the pamphlet in his hands. Asexual. Not broken, just asexual. It’s a word that Stiles can definitely get used to.

 

//

 

Stiles is eighteen when he decides to go to culinary school because he loves baking. Sure, baking is a somewhat typical omega role but Stiles has always loved cooking; it’s something he used to do with his mom and it makes him feel closer to her. He can almost hear her berating him sometimes when he dips a finger into the cupcake frosting mix to get a taste or when he cuts the millionaires shortbread into an uneven number so he can sneak a small piece for himself. His dad supports him completely and even though culinary school is expensive, they make it through.

 

His class is mostly omegas and a few betas. There’s one alpha, Matt, who takes a liking to Stiles but Stiles shuts that down immediately when Matt asks him who he’s spending his heat with. Especially since Matt says it with a sleazy wink and even sleazier tone. He doesn’t date at all throughout the four year course. He sticks to the suppressants to avoid heats, as he has no one to spend them with.

 

//

 

Stiles is twenty-six when he buys his own bakery. It took a lot of hard work and taking on two jobs and various Stilinski relatives chipping in as a birthday gift, but it’s his. It becomes the typical haunt for the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department and Stiles is 90% sure that his dad threatened them all with unpaid overtime if they didn’t get their coffee and cake from Bake My Day. Actually Stiles is pretty sure his dad has threatened the entire town because he’s never short of customers. His Dad is supportive, even if his access to the baked goods is limited.

Stiles has his regulars and the benefit of being a small town that’s not really as small as people think.

 

He’s happy.

 

But with Allison and Scott’s wedding approaching and most of his friends in comfortable relationships, Stiles can’t help but feel a little lonely. He knows he doesn’t need a relationship to make him happy nor will a relationship make him complete emotionally; still it would be nice to curl up on the sofa with someone on a Sunday afternoon.

 

He’s tried a few asexual dating sites, been on a few dates over the past six months however hasn’t found anyone worth a second date. Especially the alpha that had used the dating site as a cover for his obvious bigotry and thought all Stiles needed was a good knotting to solve his sex issues. Stiles had _accidentally_ spilt red wine all over that dickwad then faked an emergency so he could leave. Sometimes he really hates alphas.

 

Although his love life is currently lacking, that doesn’t stop him having to deal with the trails and tribulations of his friends’ relationships.

 

“I mean this wedding stuff is really screwing with my head. I don’t know whether chartreus is a better color than forest for the tablecloths and whether Times New Roman is the best font as opposed to Apple Chancery. And Lydia is no help, she just encourages him,” Allison rants, pinching the bridge of her nose as though she’s trying to prevent a wedding induced nosebleed and/or headache. Stiles makes a vague noise of sympathy, more focused on piping his macarons so that they are all the same size.

 

“He’s so dedicated to getting the perfect wedding, it’s like he doesn’t care what I want,” Allison continues, “I want a nice wedding, I do but Scott just isn’t listening when I say I want small. Family and a few friends, not the entire state.”

 

Stiles pipes strawberry macarons and makes another active listening noise.

 

“In other news, I’m pregnant. It’s Lydia’s. She’s only planning the wedding to throw suspicion off of our love affair so we can run away together.”

 

Stiles pipes his last macaron, making a large snort of derision.

 

“Ally, whilst you and Lydia would make a beautiful and terrifying couple, we both know that you could never cheat on Scott. And if you were, you’d know I’d have to murder you and bake you into one of my delicious pies as retribution.”

 

Allison rolls her eyes and folds her arms, leaning against the doorway that joins the kitchen to the front of Stiles bakery. The corners of her mouth twitch slightly, a hint of a smile.

 

“I’m serious,” Stiles says, waving his piping bag at Allison in a manner that is more hilarious than threatening. Allison raises a perfect eyebrow. Stiles shrugs, puts the piping bag down on the counter and goes to put his macarons into the oven to bake. He sets the timer before turning back to Allison.

 

“I assume this rant is to endear me to your cause so that I’ll talk to Scott instead of you.”

 

“He’s not listening to me,” Allison replies, batting her eyelashes and pouting, “Please Stiles, you’d be my absolutely favorite omega.”

 

“Considering the only omega you know is me that’s not actually a compliment. I’m your favorite omega by default.”

 

“Fine, I’ll let you make the wedding cake.”

 

Stiles laughs loudly and hard, so hard that a couple of snorts sneak their way in despite Stiles not giving them permission to.

 

“Scott already asked, no dice Legolas.”

 

Allison scowls. She taps a finger against her lips before a malicious light starts to glint in her eyes.

 

“I’ll let Lydia loose in your closet,” Allison says, “I’ll let her wild and free and able to destroy every and any article of clothing she can get her hands on.”

 

Stiles jaw drops.

 

“You wouldn’t.”

 

“Oh but I would.”

 

“You’re a monster.”

 

“Do we have a deal?”

 

Allison extends her hand to Stiles, eyes glittering. Stiles frowns but he shakes her offered hand.

 

“Excellent, thank you Stiles,” Allison says sickeningly sweet, picking her jacket up off the hook that Stiles typically uses for his aprons. “You’re a really great friend.”

 

Stiles continues to frown, grumbling to himself as he goes to the oven to turn his macarons round. Allison slips on her jacket. She pauses in the doorway with her hand on the doorframe.

 

“Oh and Stiles, when you have a frownie, eat a brownie.”

 

Stiles throws the empty piping bag at her head.

 

//

 

“She’s really that unhappy?” Scott asks. He looks like a wounded puppy, staring mournfully at his piece of cherry pie like it’s about to be taken away from him. Stiles sighs, putting a comforting hand on Scott’s shoulder.

 

“She still wants to marry you dude,” Stiles says in a reassuring tone, “Just listen to what she wants. Communication is key.”

 

Scott nibbles his pie. Stiles looks down the counter where Mason is stacking coffee cups from the dishwasher and they share an eye roll.

 

“I just want it to be perfect,” Scott replies. Stiles nods sympathetically. He holds up a finger to signal to Scott that he’ll be back in a second before heading down the counter to hand over takeaway coffee to some haggard looking deputies. He returns to Scott with the coffee pot to fill up Scott’s cup. Scott is still nibbling his pie and looking miserable.

 

“Just talk to her dude,” Stiles says, trying not to sound too exasperated. He loves Scott and Allison, he really does but their relationship drama is constant. On and off, hot and cold, high school was like a terrible soap opera drama with Stiles playing the snarky sidekick to Scott’s tragic hero. It’s not a role that Stiles is particularly fond of playing.

 

“She’s out today looking at wedding dresses with Lydia,” Scott says, pushing the last morsel of pie around his plate. “I wasn’t invited.”

 

Scott seems genuinely distressed about this. Stiles resists the urge to beat him with the rolling pin that’s tucked inside his apron.

 

“Obviously dude, you’re not meant to see the bride’s dress before the wedding. It’s like an unspoken rule. Now finish your pie so I can close up and we can go upstairs for video games and delicious greasy takeout.”

 

Scott eats the last bit, pushing the plate forward on the counter. He drains his coffee, places the cup on the plate and shrugs into his jacket. He smiles that adorable confused puppy smile at Stiles.

 

“You’re a great friend Stiles,” Scott says sincerely. Stiles huffs a laugh, shrugging his shoulders and tilting his palms upwards. The shop bell dings, a clear, metallic sound. Stiles head snaps up, prepared to tell this new customer that Bake My Day is closing and that Stiles cannot be convinced to hand over any baked goods as he has greasy, artery clogging takeout and Mario Kart to partake in but he stops himself.

 

Because it’s Peter Hale.

 

“You’re not about to close are you?” Peter asks, smiling in a way that makes Stiles insides feel like they’re about to take a swan dive off of a ridiculously high bridge and Stiles is worried they haven’t correctly measured the length of the bungee cord.

 

“I’m sure we can stay open a few minutes longer,” Stiles says, smoothing down his apron and hoping to God he doesn’t have flour on his face. Scott rolls his eyes; he’s well aware of Stiles stupid, head-over-heels crush but because he’s a best bro, he says nothing. Cause Scotty is the best.

 

“I hope I’m not causing you any trouble,” Peter says, approaching the counter with a swagger and a smirk. Stiles smiles winningly in return. He hopes it’s a winning smile. He might be smiling like a manic idiot.

 

“No trouble at all,” Stiles replies, “In fact, there’s one of my cinnamon and vanilla swirls left if you’re interested.” Stiles leans against the counter, looking up from underneath his eyelashes because Lydia told him that it makes him look doe eyed and apparently that’s a good thing. Peter’s beautiful blue eyes light up at the prospect of a cupcake.

 

“Well,” Peter practically purrs, “How could I possibly say no?”

 

Stiles ignores Scott and Mason sharing a heavy eye roll as he goes to the glass cupcake display to retrieve the last cinnamon and vanilla swirl. Sometimes Stiles wonders why he hired Mason, if he and Scott are going to share exasperated looks behind his back.

 

“Eating in or taking away?” Stiles asks, mentally crossing his fingers.

 

“Unfortunately, taking away,” Peter replies. Stiles tries not to show his disappointment. “Talia wants me to come round to discuss plans for their extension but I haven’t had a chance to eat since this morning and I’m starving. Knowing Talia, she’ll have made those abysmal oat and raison cookies of hers. I think I’d prefer something made by you.”

 

Stiles places the cupcake gingerly into a white and mint striped box, tying the top with a silver ribbon. He carries it over to the till where Peter is waiting.

 

“Well,” Stiles says, ringing up the cupcake and taking Peter’s money, “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

 

Peter grins. He winks at Stiles, drops a few dollars in the tip jar and leaves. Stiles waves at Peter’s retreating back, resisting the urge to sigh dreamily and lean on the counter like a teenager from a romantic comedy. He’s not that pathetic.

 

“Dude,” Scott says, “You are so gone on him, it’s ridiculous.”

 

Stiles whips round, pointing his finger accusingly at Scott.

 

“You do not get to judge,” Stiles says, wagging his finger and placing a hand on a hip in an impression of Scott’s mother from when they were twelve and thought playing lacrosse inside was a smart idea, “I had to deal with lovelorn you for years. Allison this and Allison that. I had to proofread your stupid love poetry Scott. So this.” Stiles mimes a box around himself. “This is a Scott McCall judgment free zone.”

 

Stiles will admit, if not aloud then mentally, that he is a bit ridiculous when it comes to Peter. He can’t help it, there’s something about Peter that draws him in. The fact that Peter is very attractive aesthetically aside, Stiles likes the fact that Peter is intelligent, sarcastic and doesn’t let the fact that he’s a beta hold him back. He’s a fierce defense lawyer, helped founding Hale Associates with his older sister Talia. He likes his coffee black, two sugars stirred in anticlockwise and he always comes in at least once a day during the work week and has high praise for the range of baked goods Stiles provides. Yeah, Stiles is smitten.

 

“You saved that cupcake just for him didn’t you?” Scott asks smugly.

 

“You can’t prove anything Scott,” Stiles replies, snatching away Scott’s empty plate. Scott snorts.

 

//

 

“What I don’t understand,” Scott begins thoughtfully, “Is why you don’t just ask him out?”

 

Stiles chooses to dangle the greasy cheese that’s dangling from his slice of meat feast pizza in his mouth rather than answer Scott’s question. Unfortunately, the cheese slides from the pizza base onto Stiles face. He screeches, trying to wipe the cheese away before it burns his cheek.

 

“ **Hot** , _hot_ , HOT!”

 

Stiles drops the slice of pizza back into the box, running to the sink to wash tomato sauce from his face. Scott is no help as he is too busy cackling. Stiles flicks water at him, hitting Scott directly in the eye. He chuckles as Scott splutters.

 

“Stop avoiding the question,” Scott says when Stiles returns to the table, using his slice of pizza like an extra limb in order to convince Stiles to confess. Almost as if Scott brandishes enough greasy food, Stiles will spill all.

 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles retorts, “I didn’t realize minor burns were the typical avoidance technique when dealing with uncomfortable unrequited love. No more ice cream and shitty rom coms, instead consider burning yourself to forget about your crush. Better yet, set yourself on fire. Sure it will hurt but in the long run you’ll be more concerned about that than your unreturned affection.”

 

Scott rolls his eyes, putting his crust back in the box like the heathen he is. Everyone know that the crust is one of the best bits.

 

“You done?” Scott asks. Stiles snatches up Scott’s forgotten crusts, grumbling and shrugging. He eats all of the leftovers whilst Scott waits patiently. That’s why Stiles likes Scott; he’s patient, he’ll wait until Stiles is ready to talk and won’t press the issue unless he really needs to. He’s unlike most alphas that Stiles has interacted with and continues to be only one he really likes, apart from Lydia.

 

“I’m not asking him out Scott because he doesn’t see me that way,” Stiles says, closing the cardboard pizza box. “We barely know each other, he just likes my baked goods and I just like what little I’ve found out about him by chatting with him in those five minutes we see each other during the week.”

 

“Have you tried to get to know him?”

 

“It’s pointless Scott,” Stiles replies, crushing the pizza box so that he can cram it into the recycling. Stiles stands at the sink, washing his hands and noticing that he should probably water the herbs on the kitchen windowsill. “Even if we did hit it off, I’m ace. Peter has a new person on his arm practically every week and there are numerous betas spilling to tabloids about his sexual prowess. We wouldn’t be compatible on that level.”

 

Stiles waters his herbs, ignoring the clench of his heart that his previous declaration caused.

 

“Maybe it’s a front,” Scott suggests, coming up to stand besides Stiles, who has started to prune the lavender. Stiles snorts, putting the lavender into a plastic box to take to the bakery in the morning. Scott puts a hand on Stiles shoulder, squeezing gently.

 

“You’ll find someone,” Scott says and he sounds so positive and confident that Stiles can’t help but believe him. “In the meantime, I’m gonna kick your ass so hard at Mario Kart.”

 

Stiles laughs. Scott is awful at Mario Kart.

 

“Yeah, yeah Scotty, tell me that when you manage to get across the Rainbow Road.”

 

“You’re on!”

 

//

 

The third Wednesday of every month is experiment day. Stiles drives his beaten up jeep all over the city, searching for unique and varied ingredients and tries to create brand new patisserie dishes with them. It’s a whole day dedicated to the new and unexplored. It’s also when Stiles does his grocery shopping during the day instead of after work, so he’s less tired and more upbeat.

 

It’s a typical experiment day. Stiles is picking up his usual fare at the grocery store, having spent the morning searching for new ingredients. He’s bought matcha green tea but he’s not totally convinced by it. He’s pursuing apples, wondering if he should make apple pie for tomorrow when he spots a watermelon out of the corner of his eye. It’s a wonderful spring day, bright sunshine and Stiles needs to start thinking about reinventing his summer menu. The watermelon is on sale. Stiles shrugs, thinking what the hell and adds one to the cart.

 

After paying for his groceries, he packs them carefully into the car. There’s not really a lot of room in the back, so some bags end up on the backseat. Stiles drives carefully when he has full grocery bags in the back. But that doesn’t mean he won’t crank up the volume on the radio and sing along loudly.

 

Stiles is driving around a particularly sharp corner, still singing at the top of his voice, when the Toyota in front stops suddenly. Stiles slams on the breaks, and the groceries go flying. The watermelon, which had seemed like a good idea a mere twenty minutes ago, bounces out of its bag, across the seat and whacks Stiles in the ribs. It takes a few minutes for the whole scenario to really sink in because _really?_ Stiles got hit in the side by a watermelon in a car. Stiles cannot even comprehend how this even happened. It’s like something out of a cartoon.

 

Once he’s got over the initial shock, he notes that somehow in the chaos of this, Stiles has punctured the watermelon with both his angular body and the parking brake. Watermelon juice is spilling all over the dashboard and seats like an open head wound. His jeep is suddenly a sweet smelling, sticky mess. Stiles grimaces. He drives home as fast as possible, not caring about the state of the rest of his groceries.

 

Stiles parks, jumping out of the Jeep and running around to the other side with the faint hope that he can salvage at least some of the watermelon. He carries it gingerly, walking at a fast pace so that he can get it upstairs as soon as possible. More than likely, Stiles is going to be eating smushed watermelon out of the sink with a fork but hey, at least it can’t get any worse.

 

It gets worse.

 

Stiles isn’t really paying attention to his surroundings, he’s too busy trying to stop watermelon juice running down his arm and therefore forgets about the cracked pavestone that’s right outside his apartment door. His sneaker catches on the raised stone and he trips, the watermelon sailing through the air. The remaining shape is lost as the watermelon crashes to the ground, splattering juice everywhere and looking like a road kill carcass. Stiles is frozen in horror, watermelon juice dripping into his left eye.

 

His eyes travel upwards from the destroyed watermelon on the sidewalk, to the polished black shoes where it landed. Then further up, past the well-fitted black suit to the head. The head of Peter Hale. The head of Peter Hale, whose expression is torn between sympathy and mild shock. Stiles can feel his skin coloring, probably bright crimson.

 

“I…I…” Stiles stammers. He’s frozen on the ground crouching about the watermelon disaster as if he could possibly salvage it. He can’t. It’s a total nightmare.

 

“I’m so sorry,” Stiles eventually decides on. It’s better than stammering like an idiot for the next ten minutes.

 

“It’s alright” Peter replies.

 

“It’s not really though is it,” Stiles says, wincing.

 

“Well not really, no. But given your predicament I didn’t want to make you feel any guiltier. How did this even happen?”

 

“Some asshole did an emergency stop and I got hit by the watermelon in the ribs and I accidently punctured it with my body,” Stiles says, standing up so that he’s not crouching in front of Peter, “So there’s watermelon all over my car and my groceries are basically everywhere and the moral of the story is wear a seatbelt. And buckle in stray watermelons. Or just buy less explosive fruit next time.”

 

Stiles places his head in his hands, groaning. This literally couldn’t get any worse. He’s a soggy, stained mess in front of his biggest crush, who is now also a mess because of Stiles clumsiness. Clearly he was an asshole in a previous life and is paying for it now. He must have killed a nun or bathed in orphan blood.

 

“Would you mind if I used your bathroom?” Peter asks, prompting Stiles to look up. “I’d like to get the worst off before it stains.”

 

“Yeah of course,” Stiles replies, fumbling with his keys due to sticky hands. Peter takes them from him, slotting the right one into the lock on the first try. Stiles can feel the tips of his ears going scarlet.

 

“It’s the first on the right at the top of the stairs,” Stiles mumbles.

 

“Thank you,” Peter says, walking up the stairs.

 

Stiles wants the ground to swallow him up. Just leave him here to die. He heads back to his car to deal with the unholy mess in the backseat, mentally berating himself the entire time.

 

//

 

Stiles runs a hand over his face, stomping up the stairs with the last bag of groceries. Only the watermelon and the eggs were destroyed in Stiles battle with Beacon Hills traffic, so most of his purchases were salvageable. The jeep smells like watermelon, which would be pleasant if Stiles didn’t now associate the incident with ruining Peter Hale’s expensive shoes.

 

He dumps the grocery bag on his tiny kitchen table, grimacing when the bottom gives way and tins of coconut milk make a bid for freedom. One rolls off the table and tries to escape into the living room but is stopped by Peter Hale’s bare feet.

 

“You’re not having a good day are you?” Peter says, bending down to retrieve the stray can.

 

“The universe is conspiring against me,” Stiles replies, unpacking the remaining groceries with a little more venom than is necessary. Peter places the can on the table, sitting down in one of the chairs to watch Stiles putter about the kitchen.

 

“My shoes are fine,” Peter says, once Stiles has put everything away. “However I had to wash my socks in your bathroom sink. They’re drying currently and those shoes are too nice to wear without socks.”

 

“Would you like to borrow socks?” Stiles asks. He doesn’t think Peter is going to like any of the socks he has, which are either so bright they’re obnoxious or have silly things written on them.

 

“I could always wait for mine to dry,” Peter says. Pointedly. Stiles brows furrow for a second before he realizes what Peter is implying.

 

“Oh, yeah sure,” Stiles says, proud of the fact that his voice doesn’t do that weird cracking thing it usually does when he’s out of his element. “Um, I’m going to have a shower, help yourself to drinks or whatever. I think I have…”

 

He pauses, turning to open a cupboard. He pulls out a Tupperware box, opening the lid to check inside. He grins.

 

“Yes, there are a few left over.”

 

He turns to Peter, offering the box. Peter peers inside, inhaling the sugary sweet scent before taking the box from Stiles hands.

 

“And these are?” Peter enquires, pulling out a chestnut brown cookie.

 

“Cinnamon sugar cookies,” Stiles replies, tapping on the open cupboard door, “There’s tea and coffee in this cupboard, soda in the fridge. Help yourself.”

 

He hurries off to the bathroom, wanting to be out of his sticky clothes. He hears Peter moving about the kitchen, moaning happily as he bites into a cookie. Stiles grins.

 

//

 

“So, what was the watermelon for?” Peter asks. Stiles finishes toweling his hair dry, draping the towel over the chair and grabbing a sugar cookie for himself. He busies himself with making peppermint tea before he answers.

 

“Experiment day,” He answers, pouring hot water into his _be special, be rare, be a you-nicorn_ mug. Allison bought it for him, it even has a cream colored unicorn on it. “Every third Wednesday of every month, I take the day off to see if I can create something new for the bakery. Or at least find a new method of making the classics that is either easier or produces a better taste. I wanted to experiment with the watermelon, which was not one of my best ideas.”

 

Stiles takes a seat opposite Peter, sipping his tea.

 

“Any of these creations make it into the bakery recently?”

 

“Sadly no,” Stiles says, staring down at his mug rather than Peter’s face. “Haven’t managed to create anything spectacular recently.”

 

“Well,” Peter says, in a tone that encourages Stiles to look up. “If you do happen to create anything _spectacular_ then I’d be happy to have first taste.”

 

Peter is smiling at him. It makes Stiles stomach tingle, as if someone has released a thousand butterflies into it. Peter has a great smile, Stiles has seen it in newspaper photographs when Peter wins a big case. This smile is different. It’s soft and a little unsure. Stiles thinks he likes this one more.

 

“Yeah sure,” Stiles says, praying that his mouth doesn’t do something stupid like tell Peter that he wants to make a nest with him and cuddle for hours. “But I’d probably need your number in order to inform you.”

 

Fuck, was that smooth or what? Peters’ smile becomes a lot more confident. He reaches for his coat, retrieving his phone. He taps at it for a few seconds before sliding it across the table. Stiles grins, typing his number in and texting himself.

 

The butterflies increase tenfold.

 

//

 

Two days later, Stiles creates lavender lime shortbread. It’s his first new creation in months. It was a little messy, his tiny apartment kitchen looks like a flour bomb went off and at one point Stiles got lime juice in his eyes but sitting on his counter is freshly baked shortbread.

 

Stiles was bored, he couldn’t stand watching any more reruns of _That 70’s Show_. He went into the kitchen to get a glass of water and thus lavender lime shortbread was born.

 

Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s snapped a picture and sent it to Peter. Instant regret. The floury kitchen is in the background; it’ll appear as if he can’t create without destruction. He nearly drops his phone in the empty mixing bowl when it buzzes with Peter’s response.

 

**_FROM PETER_ **

**Is this to rub it in my face or is this an offer to come over and sample?**

 

Stiles is in sweats. Comfy, ratty sweats and his stud muffin t-shirt. There’s lime juice stains on his chest and Stiles can feel the flour on his face. It’s not the most put together he has ever looked and if he’s honest, he doesn’t want Peter to come over right now.

 

**TO PETER**

**Not tonight, but if you’re lucky, you’ll manage to snag one with your morning coffee tomorrow**

//

 

Stiles has never been a morning person, which in retrospect is stupid considering that running a bakery requires he be a morning person. Luckily that’s why coffee was invented.

 

Stiles sips it in between filling the display cases with freshly baked treats. The morning rush that will file through the front door at seven thirty will be ravenous, seeking baked goods to satisfy the ache within. Stiles is more than happy to provide. His variety of morning pastries are the best in town. Scratch that, the best in the damn state. His raspberry and chocolate croissants have won prizes damn it. Admittedly it was the Harvest Festival and his old econ teacher gave the prize to him but the point still stands.

 

The back door opens, Erica gliding through, her lime green bubblegum popping obnoxiously.

 

“Morning boss,” Erica says cheerily, hanging up her bag and coat. Stiles nods his head in greeting, concentrating on dripping almond icing over the almond croissants in a way that is meant to look artfully messy.

 

Erica pours herself a cup of coffee, stirs in half a spoon of sugar before taking a sip. She sighs appreciatively, placing the cup on the side as she scrapes her long blonde hair back into a ponytail. She starts to take out the trays of pastries to put into the display cabinets, flicking on the iPod dock as she passes it. She hums along to Beyoncé, occasionally singing a line or two.

 

“ _Some of them men think they freak this like we do_ ,” Erica sings, sliding into the kitchen and shaking her hips in what Stiles imagines is meant to be a seductive manner. Stiles simply raises an eyebrow and continues icing. Erica shimmies around the table, still singing when she spots the box of shortbread at Stiles elbow.

 

“Ooh, something new,” She says, reaching for the lilac lid. Stiles puts down the icing bag, slapping her hand away.

 

“Not for you.”

 

Erica pouts, rubbing her hand.

 

“Unfair Stilinski,” She says.

 

“I know,” Stiles replies, “Such a mean boss, so terrible. Now go flip the sign and start serving.”

 

Erica huffs in an overdramatic manner, deliberately flouncing away. Stiles shakes his head, a touch of fondness in the action. He looks down at the box of shortbread and pats the top gently.

 

//

 

The morning rush is hectic in a way that is best described as organized chaos. Erica is efficient as a waitress, though her methods appear haphazard at first glance. No coffee cup is left empty, baked goods swiftly dispensed, money in the till, receipt in hand and god forbid you don’t put at least a quarter in the tip jar.

 

Stiles is one hundred percent focused, slipping easily into a repeated pattern, carefully reigning in his mind before it starts to wander. He has desserts that need making, bread that requires kneading. But still, when his eyes slide to the box of shortbread he can’t help but wonder when Peter will arrive and what he will think. It’s an anxious footnote in comparison to all the other worries Stiles has concerning Peter.

 

The timer on the oven goes off, signaling that the cupcakes for this afternoon are done. Stiles hurries over, scratching an itch on his nose before slipping oven gloves on to take the tray out. He puts the tray aside to cool, thinking about whether he remember to add strawberry flavoring to his shopping list. He doesn’t think he did, so he turns around to go check the whiteboard by the door and Peter is standing in the kitchen doorway. Stiles jumps, almost taking out an entire tray of strawberry tarts.

 

“Oh my god, why?” Stiles says, placing a hand over his heart. “Jesus, you scared the shit out of me. Were you going to announce your presence at all or was your plan to just give me a heart attack?”

 

Peter chuckles.

 

“Erica told me you were back here, forgive me but I enjoyed watching you work for a few minutes.”

 

“So you were creeping?”

 

“I was observing,” Peter corrects, walking into the kitchen so he’s not lounging in the doorway. “Also I was promised a sweet treat with my morning coffee.”

 

Erica appears in the doorway, grinning in a malicious, scheming way. She hands Peter a mug presumably filled with coffee, winks at Stiles before walking back to the front of the store. Stiles rolls his eyes, heading over to the box of shortbread. He brings it to the island in the middle, opening the lid and sliding it over to Peter. Peter peers inside, reaches for a square with a delicate, considered precision.

 

“It’s lavender lime shortbread,” Stiles says, scratching the back of his head. He shifts from foot to foot, his hands twisting in the bottom of his apron. Peter takes a bite. He makes an appreciative noise, taking another bite.

 

“Stiles, this is delicious.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes, the lime is wonderfully tart without being overbearing. I may have another.”

 

Peter selects another square, dipping it into his coffee briefly before he nibbles it.

  
“An excellent coffee companion. It will definitely sell, although I’m tempted to steal them all away and keep them for myself.”

 

“I mean you can,” Stiles says, letting go of his apron. “In fact do, consider it a gift.”

 

“Oh Stiles, I was kidding, you don’t have to.”

 

“No,” Stiles insists, “Take the box. I mean, once you’re done, you’ll have to bring the empty box back for me to refill it with something new. You know, seeing as you offered to be my new taste tester.”

 

Peter grins.

 

“You make a wonderful point, and as much I would love to continue chatting about the finer points of baking, I’m afraid that I need to get to work. But I’ll text you later.”

 

“Yeah, that’d be great.”

 

Stiles walks Peter out of the kitchen, stopping behind the store counter and waving as Peter leaves. Erica slides down the counter, waggling her eyebrows.

 

“Stop that.”

 

“Oh boy you got it _baaaaaad_ ,” Erica sings. Stiles restrains himself from kicking her and returns to the kitchen to make frosting. Frosting is non-judgmental and doesn’t pry into his affairs.

 

//

 

Occasionally Stiles will get a small courting gift from an Alpha. Betas too but less often and one time a fellow omega. Nothing fancy, usually something to indicate that the Alpha would like to start a courtship. Typically a fun gift like a key ring or a gift card; the more ostentatious Alphas’ tend to give him jewelry, which Stiles never understands because he literally never wears jewelry but whatever. It’s nice, it’s flattering but Stiles isn’t interested, not just because of his crush on Peter.

 

Peter is leaning on the island in the bakery kitchen, getting his hand repeatedly slapped away from the cooling chocolate chip and caramel cookies by Stiles wooden spoon, when a gift arrives.

 

“Would you stop that?” Stiles says, rapping Peter on the knuckles for the thirteenth time. “They aren’t ready yet.”

 

“Stiles, hot cookies are simply divine, why would you deny me that pleasure.”

 

“Because I made them for work, not for you to steal.”

 

Peter pouts.

 

“Well I brought back the box in hope of more sweet treats yet you haven’t made me anything new.”

 

“I am in the process of doing so,” Stiles says, pointing with the wooden spoon at the bowl of what Stiles thinks may become a three-layer maple syrup cake. “Patience is a virtue and all that.”

 

“Hey Stiles,” Mason says from the doorway, tone indicating he’s rather not interrupt. “Could you come out here for a second?”

 

“Sure thing dude,” Stiles replies. He points the spoon at Peter. “Do not touch anything.”

 

Peter tilts his head in a _who me_ type gesture. Stiles shakes his head affectionately.

 

There’s an Alpha waiting for him at the counter. Stiles has seen him around the bakery, typically orders a latte and an almond croissant. Stiles has also noticed that he watches Stiles, not in a way that sets Stiles on edge but the gaze is clearly admiring.

 

“Is there a problem?” Stiles asks, hoping that maybe it’s a complaint rather that a proposition. Not that he wants a complaint either but at least they’re easier to brush off. Mason has slipped off to the other end of the counter, pointedly cleaning the coffee machine.

 

“No problem,” the Alpha replies, “I just wanted to give you this.”

 

He hands over a fancy silver gift bag.

 

“Oh,” Stiles says, “I’m not looking into courting right now, thank you though.”

 

Stiles is suddenly aware of Peter behind him in the kitchen doorway.

 

“At least look at my gift before you say no,” the Alpha says, shaking it at Stiles.

 

“Um,” Stiles says, “Look I’m sure you’re nice, but I really am not looking to court right now.”

 

“But.”

 

“He said no,” Peter says, walking forward so he’s behind Stiles. “Unless your over-inflated ego is blocking the signals between your ears and your brain.”

 

The Alpha turns his attention to Peter. His pleasant smile melts into something a little more arrogant.

 

“Oh I see how it is, well if you change your mind and want someone with a real knot then give me a call.”

 

Peter snarls.

 

“Get out,” Stiles says, placing a hand on Peter’s chest. “I don’t tolerate that kind of language in my bakery, you are no longer welcome. Please leave before I have you forcibly removed.”

 

The Alpha sneers but leaves, encouraged by not so subtle coughing from a few of the deputies at the till. Stiles sighs, running a hand through his hair. Fucking Alphas.

 

He heads back to the kitchen, angrily grabbing his spoon and stirring the cake mix with more passion than is strictly required.

 

“Are you ok?”

 

Stiles puts the bowl down.

 

“Yeah, just annoyed.”

 

“Understandable. Would you like to talk about it?”

 

“Not really.”

 

Peter nods. Stiles spoons the cake mix into three different sized cake tins, making sure each is level and appropriately full. He pops them in the oven, setting the timer, mentally calculating how much frosting he’s going to need and whether it should be plain or maple flavored.

 

“So you’re not looking to court right now?” Peter asks. He’s drawing patterns in the remnants of spilled flour.

 

“No,” Stiles replies, turning around. “I mean, if it was the right person. I’d have to know them first; I couldn’t date someone that I’m not at least friends with. The Alphas’ that come in here, they have this image of me in their head. Male identifying omega in a bakery, clearly subscribing to a role befitting of the omegas they want to date. They don’t know me, nor do they really want to. I want to be with someone who likes me, quirks and all.”

 

 _Someone who’s asexual_ goes unsaid. Peter processes this information quietly. Stiles panics that he’s made it awkward when Peter, without looking up, sneakily slides a cookie from the cooling rack across the counter.

 

“Hey!” Stiles protests but Peter has already bitten into it. “You’re a terrible person.”

 

Peter swallows and grins.

 

“I never claimed otherwise.”

 

//

 

It’s easy to get along with Peter. They have a similar sense of humor, are able to talk about hobbies and interests and political views with ease. Peter is wicked smart and he cares about Stiles opinion. He cares about what Stiles thinks.

 

It’s a hopeless crush. Stiles knows he shouldn’t but when Peter smiles at him, sweet and soft, well Stiles can’t help the warm feeling in his chest. It’s like he planted red tulips in his chest, they’re so beautiful when they’re in bloom but when they wither, it’s like his lungs are full of strangling roots.

 

He knows this relationship can never become romantic. Doesn’t stop him hoping anyway.

 

//

 

Easter comes around a lot quicker than Stiles expects but Stiles has learnt the finer points of time management, so any special orders he has are all on time. In fact, Stiles has a little spare time on his hands. Peter is away for a conference and won’t be back till next week, which gives Stiles plenty of time to bake him a surprise.

 

“You’re making him a babka?” Scott asks. Stiles makes a vague noise of agreement, pulling one of his old cookbooks down from the shelf in the living room. He flicks through the pages, cringing over his terrible spidery handwriting that is almost impossible to decipher, jeez did he write this drunk?

 

“You only make babkas for people you love,” Scott says.

 

“No I don’t.”

 

“You wouldn’t make Allison one until college.”

 

“In my defense, high school relationships don’t always last.”

 

Stiles holds the cookbook up to his eyes, moving it back and forth in the hope that the writing will somehow become more legible.

 

“You hang out with Peter a lot, do you think it’ll go anywhere?”

 

“We’ve had this conversation Scott. We’re friends, it’s not anything more.”

 

Scott nods, taking a sip of beer.

 

“Wanna play Mario Kart?”

 

“Fuck yeah.”

 

//

 

Stiles has been to Peter’s apartment a couple of times, but mostly they hang out in Stiles apartment or the bakery. Peter’s apartment block has a doorman. Stiles lives above his workplace and nearly flooded it once. Peter’s apartment is classy. Lots of fancy furniture and windows and sleek wood paneling. The kitchen is futuristic monochrome and whilst Peter insists that he enjoys cooking, it does not look used. To Stiles, if you haven’t accidently put a hot cooking implement on the countertop and left a burn mark then have you really used your kitchen.

 

He made the babka this morning. He even made sugar craft Easter flowers to decorate; yellow roses, blue irises and chrysanthemums. Yellow roses are a flower typically associated with friendship; Stiles is hoping Peter doesn’t read too much into it, he was going for Easter colors and, after some serious soul searching Stiles has decided that this friendship with Peter is worth preserving. Stiles has always been good at managing expectations.

 

“Stiles, what a wonderful surprise, come in, come in.”

 

Peter ushers Stiles inside, hands gliding over Stiles shoulders to help him out of his jacket.

 

“What have you brought me?”

 

Peter peers over Stiles shoulder at cake box in Stiles hands. Stiles is wondering if the lemon yellow ribbon was a bit much.

 

“Babka,” Stiles says, following Peter to the kitchen. “It’s um… a Polish Easter cake.”

 

He places the cake box on the counter next to the hob, stepping back and crossing his arms. Aiming for nonchalant, definitely falling short. Peter gently pulls one end of the ribbon, undoing it in a smooth motion. Peter has strong hands, fingers that are always careful and practiced in what they do. Hands that would feel great playing with Stiles hair or cupping his face; hands that lead to strong arms that would give good hugs. Stiles shakes his head slightly, shaking the fantasy of Peter pulling Stiles in close for a long and lingering hug out of his mind.

 

Peter lifts the babka out of the box, leaning in to breathe in its sweet scent. His blue eyes light up, a happy glint.

 

“Stiles, this looks wonderful. Shall we have a slice with coffee?”

 

They have coffee and babka on the balcony. Peter has a view over Beacon Hills, both the sprawling city and the preserve. Stiles closes his eyes, enjoying the late afternoon sun on his face. For a moment, he imagines that Peter will come up behind him, nuzzle his neck and kiss his cheek. Imagines them cuddling on Peter’s couch which feels like it’s made of clouds, watching Star Wars. Imagines baking in that kitchen, trying to contain the inevitable mess but knowing Peter would smear flour on Stiles cheeks.

 

He imagines until Peter nudges his elbow to hand over a mug.

 

//

 

“I have a challenge for you,” Peter says. He deposits a bottle of coconut rum on the counter. Stiles stares at it.

 

“What exactly do you want me to do with this?”

 

“I want you to make a baked good with it.”

 

Stiles picks up the bottle. It’s not a brand he recognizes, which probably means that it’s a local supermarkets ‘own brand’ and probably tastes terrible.

 

“You’re a really good lawyer, can’t you afford a better bottle than this?”

 

“Yes but what if you make something awful?”

 

“Ok, one, _rude_. Two, it’s shitty rum so that might be awful because you were too cheap to buy decent rum.”

 

“Well if you’re not up to the challenge.”

 

Peter reached for the rum but Stiles moves it out of his way.

 

“No, I didn’t say that.”

 

Stiles unscrews the cap, taking a swig. It burns on the way down. Stiles splutters, coughing violently as his eyes water.

 

“I’m ok,” Stiles says, waving away Peter’s concern. “I’m gonna make something great.”

 

Stiles first batch of piña colada cupcakes are disgusting. Way too much terrible coconut rum, which is starting to taste like sadness and broken dreams. He tries again but they’re equally gross. Stiles sighs as he tips the mess into the garbage but he’s not going to be beaten by off-brand coconut rum. A small, idiotically primal part of Stiles wants to make something good to prove he could provide for Peter as an omega. Mostly it’s his annoyance at the fucking rum.

 

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breathe. He can do this. He goes to the cupboards, searching around until he finds an old can of diced pineapple that he bought a while ago as well as a can of coconut milk and gets to work.

 

These cupcakes are divine.

 

“I knew you could do it,” Peter says, licking frosting from his fingers. It’s after closing; they’re back in Stiles apartment. They’re on the couch, sat close enough that their thighs are touching. Stiles is pretending he’s not hyperaware of it. It would be so easy for Stiles to swing his legs over into Peter’s lap, to cuddle in close. To nuzzle at Peter’s neck and fall into that soft, hazy space of being close and intimate.

 

“Of course I could, I’m fucking amazing at baking.”

 

“That you are.”

 

Peter is smiling at Stiles. It’s a smile that makes Stiles feel warm inside, a tender smile that looks like it’s rarely seen. It’s the kind of smile that’s like a sunset in summer, beautiful in a relaxing way. Stiles smiles back, dipping his head.

 

“But could you do the same with vodka?” Peter asks, breaking the moment.

 

Stiles shoves at Peter’s shoulder.

 

“You’re a taste tester, I’m not your personal pàtissière.”

 

“Is there a difference?”

 

Stiles smushes cupcake frosting into Peter’s cheek.

 

//

 

Even though Stiles is on suppressants, at least a couple of times a year, a few heat-like symptoms will sneak through into his system. It will only last for about three to five days but his temperature increases, he feels incredibly touch starved and he has an itch under his skin that can only be scratched by stealing comfortable blankets to make a nest. He gets a little irritable due to his skin being stupidly hyper sensitive, so he’s more prone to snap at people although he regards the nesting instinct as the most annoying factor.

 

He manages this pseudo-heat by hiding in the bakery kitchen all day and going to bed once the workday is over. Buries himself in the softest blankets, wraps his arms around a fleecy pillow and rubs his cheek against the fabric. Investing in an aroma diffuser and soft fairy lighting was an excellent idea, making him feel soft and safe. He can put on a Spotify playlist of ambient space music and just float in a sweet smelling haze. He has a system that works.

 

Peter, completely out of the left field, disrupts his plan.

 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to lock up?” Mason asks. Stiles runs a hand through his hair. Today is a particularly hard day, he feel so warm regardless of the AC or guzzling water.

 

“I’m fine Mason, go home.”

 

Stiles rubs his eye with the heel of his palm. He’s so tired. He wants to eat Mexican takeout, then crawl into bed and possibly die. Maybe he’ll work on the design for Scott’s wedding cake but probably not. It doesn’t even need tweaking but Stiles is still fiddling with it, he wants it to be perfect.

 

Stiles hears the door open but doesn’t really register it, too busy running the tap to splash cold water on his face.

 

“I thought I’d cook for you tonight,” Peter says when he walks into the kitchen, “seeing as you’re always providing me with such wonderful treats.”

 

Stiles turns off the tap, wiping his face with a nearby tea towel. When he turns, Peter is beside him.

 

“Are you alright, you’re looking flushed?”

 

Peter places a hand on Stiles forehead. Stiles whimpers, it’s the first human contact he’s had for a while.

 

“You’re burning up, are you sick?”

 

“No,” Stiles says weakly, pushing Peter’s hand away.

 

“Are you in heat?”

 

Peter’s tone is gentle.

 

“No, I’m on suppressants. Just sometimes get mini symptoms. I’m fine.”

 

Peter makes a disgruntled noise, cupping the back of Stiles neck firmly.

 

“Let’s get you upstairs.”

 

//

 

Stiles makes a soft sighing sound, nuzzling against a pillow. He knows he should ask Peter to leave but he’s sleepy and this bed is so comfortable. Peter made him a spicy chicken dish with rice, it was delicious. Stiles is comfortably full. He rubs at his eyes again, yawning.

 

Peter is pouring water into the aroma diffuser, gingerly sorting through the assorted aromatic oils. There’s a muted click, then the diffuser begins whirring, jasmine mist spilling out. Stiles makes a pleased noise.

 

“Do you have a heat partner that you want me to call?” Peter asks. His tone is gentle but there’s an uncomfortable edge. Stiles shakes his head.

 

“Don’t have one. Don’t have a partner of any kind, heat or otherwise.”

 

Stiles doesn’t want to talk about this. Stiles wants to cuddle. Stiles doesn’t want to think about the fact that he has no one to cuddle.

 

“Would you like me to stay?”

 

The question is jarring. Stiles almost feels like he’s been slapped awake, pulled out of this tired fuzziness. He wants so badly to say yes. To pull Peter into this cozy nest, bury his face in Peter’s neck and just be.

 

Peter reaches out, cupping Stiles cheek. He smoothes a thumb across Stiles cheekbone.

 

“I’ll be fine,” Stiles says, moving out of Peter’s grip. “Thank you for everything.”

 

Peter nods. Stiles turns away, yanking a pillow close. He waits until he hears the front door close before crying.

 

//

 

“I’m just so fucking embarrassed,” Stiles moans, head in his hands. Scott makes a sympathetic face, reaching across the table to squeeze Stiles shoulder.

 

“I’m sure that Peter didn’t mind,” Allison says. “Have you spoken to him since?”

 

Stiles shakes his head.

 

“He sent me a text but I’ve been busy with preparing for your wedding cake. You still need to pick an actual flavor.”

 

He gets up to fetch the samples he’s been preparing and in his desire to forget the incident with Peter he’s probably made more than was necessary.

 

Allison and Scott share a _look_ but before either of them can speak Stiles slides a tray of samples across the table for them to peruse and the conversation turns back to wedding planning. Scott and Allison get waylaid comparing samples and Stiles focuses on the conversation instead of his embarrassment.

 

The bakery is closed to customers however Stiles still can’t help but look at the door as if expecting Peter to walk in.

 

//

 

Stiles hasn’t seen or spoken to Peter in four days when he turns up at the bakery, pushing past the counter and Erica’s feeble protests to come into the kitchen. It’s almost closing and the bakery will be closed for the next few days whilst Stiles makes the wedding cake and attends said wedding.

 

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

 

“I did try to stop him,” Erica says, pushing past Peter and making a placating _what-can-you-do_ gesture. Stiles rubs the bridge of his nose.

 

“It’s fine Erica, go home, I’ll see you at the wedding.”

 

Erica looks between Stiles and Peter, biting her lip. She turns on her heel, murmuring something to Peter as she passes him. Peter’s mouth sets in a grim line.

 

“So, yes,” Stiles says, once Erica has left, “I have been avoiding you. I mean I’ve been busy.”

 

He holds up the plans for Scott’s wedding cake.  


“I do have to make this, tomorrow in fact. So yes, I have been avoiding you but only partially because I’m embarrassed by my behaviour.”

 

“You have nothing to be embarrassed about.”

 

“Yes well.”

 

Stiles rolls a pencil between his forefinger and thumb. He can feel Peter’s gaze on him, almost burning a hole in the side of his head.

 

“I would have stayed.”

 

Stiles sighs, staring more determinedly at the plans for the cake. He’s staring so hard they’re starting to blur.

 

“If you had wanted me to,” Peter continues, walking closer, “I would have stayed. I know it wasn’t a real heat, but I would like to spend a real one with you. I like you Stiles. I like your wit and your charm and your intelligence. I would like to court you if you will let me.”

 

Stiles snaps the pencil. He turns, unsure of his response, unsure what to say and suddenly Peter’s there, cradling his face and bringing him in for a kiss. It’s soft and chaste, Peter is touching him with such tenderness but that only makes this more painful.

 

Stiles pulls away, willing himself not to cry.

 

“I’m sorry, I can’t. We wouldn’t be compatible, not that way. I’m sorry.”

 

He can’t look at Peter. Doesn’t want to see the disappointment in Peter’s face. Stiles throat aches like he’s swallowed broken glass.

 

“I understand, I’m sorry for making assumptions as to the nature of our relationship. I misread your friendship as attraction, I apologize. Excuse me.”

 

Peter leaves, taking Stiles heart with him.

 

//

 

Scott’s wedding is good. Stiles made a pretty fucking amazing cake, three tiers of maple syrup sponge with vanilla buttercream and decorated with sugar craft flowers, red tulips and roses. Lydia’s tenacious planning pays off; the entire wedding is picture perfect. Stiles tears up during the ceremony, again when he’s giving his best man speech. He’s been crying a lot this past week, at least this time it’s for a happy reason.

 

Lydia manages to manipulate him into dancing. It’s safer to just let her lead, Stiles is happy to be told where to put his feet and hold his arm up to let her twirl. Once they’ve finished, Allison demands a go, though they mostly sway on the spot given how unforgiving Allison’s dress is. She looks beautiful though, that’s what counts Stiles supposes.

 

“Are you going to explain to Peter that you’re asexual?” Allison asks.

 

“Hey, this is your big day. Shouldn’t we be talking about you?”

 

“We all know that this is Scott’s big day, look at him, trying to dance with my mother, bless him.”

 

Scott smiles as he and Victoria shimmy past. Victoria appears to be trying to look as non-threatening as possible. Scott appears to be grinning and bearing it.

 

“That is hilariously awkward,” Stiles comments, “We should talk about that instead.”

 

“Stiles, you’re in love with him.”

 

“I’ve told you a thousand times, my relationship with Scott is strictly platonic. We only tried kissing once. It was disgusting.”

 

“ _Stiles_.”

 

Stiles can feel the italics.

 

“I know, ok, I know.”

 

The song ends. Chris looks like he would like to cut in and dance with his daughter so Stiles steps aside to let him. He goes to hide by the bar, orders a beer and sips it, watching everyone dance.

 

He’s happy in a sense. He’s happy for Scott and Allison, he’s happy to be here experiencing this moment. There’s an ache in his chest, an ache he knows is from misplacing his heart. Huh, misplacing makes it sound as if he put it down somewhere and forgot to pick it up. He knows exactly where it is.

 

“Don’t wallow in it boo,” Erica says. She puts a comforting arm around him. “You’re too pretty to be sad.”

 

“I’m not sad.”

 

“Oh babe, don’t lie to a beta. What we lack in strange pheromone induced sex hazes, we make up for in bullshit detectors.”

 

“That makes zero sense but ok.”

 

Erica pats his cheek.

 

“Peter really likes you, I bet he won’t care that you’re ace. And if he does, well he was never good enough for you anyway. This situation is a cat in a box right now, gotta open it to know the truth.”

 

Stiles snorts.

 

“That was almost wise.”

 

“Screw you Stilinski, I am so wise. Now buy me a beer.”

 

“It’s an open bar.”

 

//

 

Stiles makes a peace offering. Peter’s favourite cake, black tea cake with honey buttercream. Stiles rarely makes this cake, it was also his Mom’s favourite, so he always tears up a little when mixing the batter. He makes sure that it looks amazing, even uses some of the leftover red tulip sugar flowers he has to decorate. Red tulips for undying love.

 

Stiles waits outside Peter’s door; his body has more anxiety than he knows what to do with. He tries to keep his pounding heart under control as he knocks, fully aware that if he keeps biting his lip it’s going to bleed.

 

“Stiles, I wasn’t expecting you.”

 

“Yeah, umm… I made you a cake. It’s black tea with honey buttercream, your favourite.”

 

Stiles presents the cake box, praying it won’t slip out of his sweaty hands.

 

“It’s a peace offering, of sorts. I have some things to say and explain, and I’m super nervous right now and kind of don’t want to do this on this hallway but we can if you don’t want me to come in, because I get it, like I was kind of an asshole but just please don’t shut the door in my face.”

 

Peter takes the cake box, fingers grazing Stiles before he steps aside to allow him in. Stiles goes to the kitchen, even though it’s not his, most kitchens are pretty similar and it calms him. Peter places the cake box on the kitchen table.

 

“Would you like to sit down?”

 

Stiles shakes his head. He doesn’t think he can stay still for too long.

 

“So, when I said we wouldn’t be compatible and then didn’t explain further, that was kind of a dick move.”

 

“Is it because I’m a beta?”

 

Stiles pales. Peter’s face is neutral but there’s an anguished glint in his eye. His hand is shaking a little.

 

“No, God no. I don’t care about that.”

 

“But something about me is unsatisfactory.”

 

“It’s not you, it’s me. I’m not. I can’t… I can’t give you what you need.”

 

Stiles runs a hand through his hair. He can’t find the right words; everything feels hollow and clunky in his mouth. He guesses the best thing to do is tell the truth, explaining what that means as best he can.

 

“I’m asexual, I don’t have traditional heats. I don’t want to have sex in any capacity it physically repulses me. I can’t have that kind of relationship with you.”

 

Stiles is staring at the floor, unable to meet Peter’s eye.

 

“Is that the only reason you didn’t want me to court you?”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles mumbles, “I’m like stupidly gone on you. I’m not averse to touch as long as it isn’t sexual. I want to make a nest for us for cuddle and kiss in. I want to curl up with you on the couch and listen to you read; I want to cook with you and go on dates and be so comfortable with you that we can do separate activities in the same room but still be enjoying each others company.”

 

“Stiles, I’m grey-asexual.”

 

Stiles looks up. Peter walks towards him, hands out as is if ready to pull Stiles into a hug but isn’t quite sure if he should. Stiles takes a step forward.

 

“I don’t need to have sex to have a relationship,” Peter murmurs, hands skimming along Stiles arms. Stiles yanks Peter close, holding him as tightly as he can. Peter runs his hands up and down Stiles back, a soothing motion. Stiles can feel tears pricking his eyes. Peter nudges Stiles face up, presses a sweet kiss to Stiles lips.

 

“Next time, you tell me what’s bothering you. No more miscommunication.”

 

Stiles chuckles weakly, rubbing at his eyes.

 

“Fair enough.”

 

Peter smiles, cupping Stiles faces and running his thumbs along Stiles cheekbones.

 

“Though should we argue, cakes are more than enough of a peace offering.”

 

“I’ll bear that in mind. Though speaking of cake, let’s have a slice on the balcony, I didn’t make a cake for it to go uneaten.”

 

Peter kisses Stiles again. Stiles is happily going to get used to that.

 

“An excellent idea.”

 

//

 

Stiles spends his next heat on Peter’s silk sheets, surrounded by pillows. Peter gives him massages and feeds him by hand, making sure that Stiles has every need attended to. Stiles floats in a warm, comforting haze, almost overwhelmed by the care and attention.

 

“How are you feeling darling?”

 

Stiles hums, reaching up to pull Peter down for a kiss.

 

“Good. A little sleepy. Let’s nap together.”

 

Peter climbs into the bed. They arrange themselves so that Peter is essentially Stiles cushion. Stiles makes a pleased rumbling noise, eyes fluttering shut. Peter leans over to switch on Spotify, calming piano music filling their den.

 

“I love you,” Stiles mumbles into Peter’s neck.

 

“I love you too.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading - I hope you enjoyed it. Check out my [tumblr](http://ladypigswagon.tumblr.com/)  
> \- I write poetry on there sometimes. 
> 
> Check out pastryaffair.com for some of the recipes used.


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